But he knows his way around a computer, Wallander thought. However you explain that.
Once they were inside, Axel Modin said in a low voice that his wife was in the living room.
"She has a nose bleed," he said. "She always gets one when she is upset."
Wallander and Martinsson walked in to meet her. She started to cry when she heard that they were from the police.
"We'd better sit in the kitchen," Axel Modin said. "That way we won't disturb her. She gets anxious."
Wallander sensed a note of sadness in his voice as he spoke of his wife. Axel closed the kitchen door part of the way. During their conversation Wallander had the feeling that he was listening for any sound from the living room.
He offered them coffee and they both said no. They shared a feeling of urgency. During the drive out to Löderup Wallander had grown increasingly worried. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he knew that the boy could be in real danger. Already they had two young people dead in the case and Wallander couldn't bear the prospect of it happening a third time.
While they had been speeding down the main road towards Löderup, Wallander had been too nervous about Martinsson losing control on the wet surface to say anything, but once they reached the minor roads and he was forced to slow down Wallander started asking questions.
"How could he have known that we were in Falk's office? And how did he have Falk's e-mail address?"
"He probably tried to call you first," Martinsson said. "Is your phone on?"
Wallander looked. He had turned it off. He swore.
"He must have guessed that we were there," Martinsson said. "And of course he simply memorised Falk's address. There's nothing wrong with his mind."
Now they were sitting in the kitchen.
"We got what amounts to an SOS from Robert," Wallander said.
Axel Modin stared at him. "An SOS?"
"He sent us an e-mail. But the most important thing is that you tell us what happened at this end."
"I don't know anything "Axel Modin said. "I didn't even know you were coming here. But I did notice that he's been up late these past couple of nights. I don't know what he's been up to, but I know it has to do with those damned computers of his. Today when I woke around 6 a.m. he was still at it. He can't have slept at all. I knocked on his door and asked if he wanted a cup of coffee. He said yes. He came down after about half an hour, but didn't say anything. He seemed completely bound up in his thoughts."
"Was that typical of him?"
"Yes, it didn't surprise me. I could see in his face that he hadn't slept."
"Did he say anything about what he was doing?"
"No, he didn't. It wouldn't have done any good. I'm an old man and I don't understand the first things about computers."
"And then what happened?"
"He drank the coffee, had a glass of water and went back upstairs."
"I didn't think he drank coffee," Martinsson said. "I thought he was very particular about his diet."
"Coffee is the big exception. But you're right. He's vegan, he says."
Wallander wasn't sure what the parameters for a vegan were. Linda had tried to explain it all to him once and had mentioned things such as environmental consciousness, buckwheat and bean sprouts. But it was beside the point now. He pressed on.
"So Robert goes back to his bedroom. What time was that?"
"About 6.45 a.m."
"Were there any telephone calls this morning?"
"He has a mobile. I can't hear it."
"So what happened then?"
"At 8 a.m. I went upstairs with breakfast for my wife. When I walked past his door I didn't hear anything. I actually stopped and tried to hear if he might have gone to bed."
"Do you think he had?"
"It was quiet and I think he was lying in bed. But I don't think he was sleeping. It seemed to me that he was thinking."
Wallander wrinkled his nose. "How could you know that?"
"I can't, of course. But I don't think it's so hard to tell if a person behind a closed door is thinking with great concentration. Don't you think you can sense it?"
Martinsson nodded in an understanding manner that irritated Wallander. The hell you would be able to tell if I had the door closed and was thinking hard, he thought to himself.
"Let's move on. You gave your wife breakfast in bed."
"Not in bed, actually. She has a little table in the bedroom. She's often unsettled in the morning and needs a bit of time to herself."
"And then?"
"I went back to the kitchen to wash the dishes and feed the cats. And the chickens out back. We have a couple of ducks as well. Then I went to the letter box and got the paper. I had some more coffee and read the paper."
"And all this time you didn't hear anything from upstairs?"
"No. It was after this that it happened."
Axel Modin got up and walked over to the door. He pushed it closer, then came back to the table.
"I heard Robert's door open with a bang. He came down the stairs at an incredible speed. I only had time to stand up before he reached the kitchen. He looked completely in shock, as if I was a ghost. Before I had time to say anything he ran into the hall and locked the front door. Then he came back and asked me if I had seen anyone. He screamed it at me."
"That was what he said? 'Have you seen anyone?'"
"Right. He was beside himself. I asked him what was the matter, of course. But he didn't listen. He was looking out of the window, here in the kitchen and then in the living room. My wife started shouting from upstairs. She was frightened by the noise. It was pretty hectic in here for a few minutes, I can tell you."
"What happened next?"
"When he came back to the kitchen he had my shotgun and he ordered me to get the cartridges for it. That scared me and I asked him again what had happened, but he wouldn't say. He just wanted the cartridges. But I didn't give him any."
"Then what happened?"
"He threw the shotgun on the sofa in there and grabbed the car keys. I tried to stop him, but he pushed me aside and ran out."
"What time was it?"
"I don't know. My wife was at the head of the stairs screaming and I had to take care of her. But it would have been about 8.45 a.m."
Wallander looked at the time. He had sent his e-mail asking for help and then he had left. Wallander stood up.
"Did you see which way he went?"
"He went north."
"One other thing. Did you see anyone when you went out to get the paper? Or when you fed the chickens?"
"Who would I have seen? And in this weather?"
"There may have been a car parked somewhere. Or a car driving past."
"There was no-one here."
Wallander nodded to Martinsson. "We have to look at his room," Wallander said.
Axel Modin had buried his face in his hands. "Can someone explain to me what's going on?"
"Not right now," Wallander said. "But we're going to try to find your son."
"He was frightened," Axel Modin said softly. "I have never seen him so frightened. He was as frightened as his mother sometimes gets."
Wallander and Martinsson went upstairs. Martinsson pointed to the shotgun leaning against the banister. The flickering screens of two monitors greeted them in Robert's room. There were clothes all over the floor and the waste-paper basket next to the desk was overflowing.
"What was it that happened shortly before 9.00 this morning?" Wallander said. "Something scared him. He sent us the e-mail and then ran. He was desperate, literally afraid for his life. He wanted the shotgun for protection. He looks out the windows and then takes the car."
Martinsson picked up the mobile that was lying next to the computers. It was switched off.
"Maybe someone called," he said. "Or else he may have made a call himself and was told something that frightened him. Too bad he didn't take the phone with him when he left."
"If he sent us an e-mail, he may also have recei
ved one. He told us that someone had traced him and that he needed our help."
"But he didn't wait for us."
"Either something else happened after he e-mailed us, or he seriously didn't want to wait any longer."
Martinsson sat at the desk. "We'll leave that one for now," he said, referring to the smaller of the two computers.
Wallander didn't ask how Martinsson could determine which of the two was more important. For the time being he was dependent on his expertise. Wallander didn't like it when one of his colleagues knew more than he did.
While Martinsson started typing on the keyboard Wallander looked around the room. The rain was whipping against the window. On one wall there was a large poster with a carrot on it. It was the only thing that stood out in a room devoted to the electronic sphere. There were computer books, diskettes and cables. Some of the computer cords were wrapped round each other like a nest of vipers. There was a modem, a printer, a television and two video recorders. Wallander walked over to the desk and bent down. What could Robert have seen through this window as he was sitting at the desk? There was a road far in the distance. He could have seen a car, Wallander thought. He looked around the room again, lifting things carefully until he found a pair of binoculars under some papers. He focused them on the distant landscape. A raven flew across his line of vision, close to the house, and Wallander flinched involuntarily. Otherwise there was nothing. A tumbledown fence, trees, and a narrow road that snaked through the fields.
"How's it going?" he said.
Martinsson mumbled something. Wallander put on his glasses and looked at the pieces of paper closest to the computers. Robert Modin's handwriting was hard to read. There were some half-finished equations and phrases, without beginning or end. The word "delay" occurred several times. Sometimes it was underlined, other times it appeared with a question mark beside it. Wallander kept looking. On another page Robert had written "Completion date of programming?" and then: "Insider necessary?" A lot of question marks, Wallander thought. He's been searching for answers just as we have.
"Look here," Martinsson said, suddenly. "He got an e-mail. Then he sent his message to us."
Wallander leaned in and read the message. You have been traced. Nothing else.
"Was there anything later?" Wallander said.
"No messages since then."
"Who sent the message?"
"The source is hidden behind all these scrambled codes. This is someone who didn't want to say who he was."
"But where did it come from?"
"The server is Vesuvius," Martinsson said. "We can certainly have it traced, but it may take a while."
"You don't think it's here in Sweden?"
"I doubt it."
"Vesuvius is a volcano in Italy," Wallander mused. "Can that be where it came from? What happens if we reply to the message?"
"I'm not sure. We can try." Martinsson prepared a return message. "What do you want the text to say?"
Wallander thought about it.
"'Please repeat your message'," he said. "Try that."
Martinsson nodded approvingly and wrote the message in English.
"Should I sign it?"
"Yes. 'Robert Modin.'"
Martinsson hit "send" and the reply went into cyberspace. Almost at once a message came up on the screen saying that the address was unknown.
"You'll have to tell me what you want me to do next," Martinsson said. "What should I look for, do you think? Where Vesuvius is, or something else?"
"Send a message to someone over the Internet asking about this server," Wallander said. "Ask if anyone knows where to find it." But then he changed his mind. "Put the question this way. Is the server Vesuvius based in Angola?"
Martinsson was taken aback. "Are you still thinking about that postcard from Luanda?"
"No, I think the postcard is incidental. But I think Falk met someone in Luanda a number of years ago and that it was a turning point in his life. I don't know what happened there but I'm sure it's important. Crucial, in fact."
Martinsson looked hard at him. "Sometimes I think you put too much stock in your intuition, if you'll pardon my saying so."
Wallander had to work hard to control himself. Rage at Martinsson boiled up inside him, but he took a deep breath. They had to focus on Modin. But Wallander did file away what Martinsson had said, word for word. He had a long memory, as Martinsson was going to learn first-hand. But for now he had an idea he wanted to try out.
"While Robert was working for us, he sometimes consulted a couple of friends online," Wallander said. "One in California and one in Rätrvik. Did you ever make a note of their e-mail addresses?"
"I wrote everything down," Martinsson said in a hurt voice. Wallander assumed he was upset because he hadn't thought of it himself.
Wallander cheered up. "They won't hold anything against us asking about Vesuvius," he said. "Make it clear that we're asking on Robert's behalf. While you do that I'm going to start looking for him."
"What does this message mean anyway?" Martinsson said. "He didn't manage to clean up after himself. Is that it?"
"You're the specialist," Wallander said. "Not me. But I have a feeling that has only been growing stronger. You will no doubt correct me if I'm wrong – and this feeling has nothing to do with my intuition, only with facts – but I feel as if the people we are dealing with are supremely well informed of our activities."
"We know someone has been observing our activities at Apelbergsgatan and Runnerströms Torg. You almost ran into him, in fact. When he took a shot at you."
"That's not it. I'm not talking about this person, who may or may not be called Fu Cheng. What I'm getting at is that it almost seems as if they have a mole inside the station."
Martinsson burst out laughing. Wallander couldn't tell if it was mocking or not.
"You're not serious! You don't think one of us is mixed up in this, do you?"
"No, I don't. But I'm wondering if there might be another kind of leak."
Wallander pointed at the computer. "What I'm wondering is if someone has been doing the same thing we were doing with Falk's computer. Breaking in to get secret information."
"The national records are exceedingly well secured."
"But what about our individual computers? Are they so watertight that someone with the expertise and enough drive couldn't break into them? You and Höglund write all your reports on them. I don't know about Hansson. I do it some of the time. Nyberg tussles with his machine. The coroner's report comes both in a hard copy and electronically. What would happen if someone had a way in and was watching everything that came into our computers? Without us being aware of it?"
"It isn't plausible," Martinsson said. "Our security is too good."
"It's just a thought," Wallander said. "One of many."
He left Martinsson and walked down the stairs. Through the half-open door to the living room he could see Axel Modin put an arm round his giant wife, who still had cotton wool in her nostrils. It was an image that filled him with pity and, mysteriously, with joy. Which feeling dominated, he wasn't sure. He knocked gently on the door.
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